…gargoyles and goddesses
mom’s perm potion to magically take my hair from afro crown to rapunzel flow was a smoldering disaster that summer. I shed from shoulder-length to two tiny perpendicular pigtails on either side of my toothless seven-year-old smiling brown face. to not feel so alone, I cut the hair off all my dolls, not in some styled pageboy coif, these perfect plastics were butchered in a blond don king heap of who cares.
when school started i was greeted with laughter, with grunts of disgust, and christened ugly. at recess i sat on the bench under the canopy with the girl taller than anyone in our class and the girl rounder than anyone in our class. and i watched the desired-girls giggle and run and whisper to one another looking our way – looking at the boys. looking – i decided that I too wanted to play. when I joined in, girls ran behind me, and the boys ran around me, as though I was a castle wall, as though my head was a gargoyle perched, ready to devour them with my toothless roaring laugh. the boys would run away and i became a safe place.
girls with long hair scampered, squealing to hide behind me as the boys ran towards them, i would growl as if i truly was a bronze gargoyle come to life. and the boys ran away in fear of being touched by someone unprettied. i’d raise my arms high and curl my fingers as though I had claws, they’d run when I gave my toothless dragon growl, they’d run as though i had daggers or a gun.
and i enlisted the help of the too-tall girl and the too-round girl on our parochial school ground we became the protectors – the safe place for all that is good and pure from all that is fierce and dangerous. and we belonged, were a necessary force between good and evil, invincible we three christened ourselves Artemis, Athena, and Hestia – untouchable.
*Previously published in “Pandemic Summer: Prose and Poetry from Inlandia Writers at Home”
Will be published in my upcoming book of poetry Purgatory Has an Address – release date April 15.
Incident in Blue
Dedicated to Becky and Karen
“Democracy must begin at home, and its home is the neighborly community”.
― Eric Klinenberg
maybe the dog pissed on the carpet one too many times that morning
when the neighbor saw my son in the hot tub
may as well clean both up
she called the police
as my son’s head leaned back on his shoulders
eyes closed chest expanding in the water
the sun is god and he is god’s well-baked son
eyes closed steeping like a soaked chamomile tea bag
ready for dreams
eyes open
two police stiffly stand over him
get out of the jacuzzi, sir
he is yanked into a nightmare
the sun shifts to shadows on the pavement
my bare-chest barefoot wallet-less son
stepped out calmly
made sure not to give the allusion of a weapon
do nothing to make them nervous
We had a complaint from the complex
about a vagrant in the jacuzzi
… and the sun is yellow dog-piss raining on him
voice clear – but not too firm
I live here – I can take you to my condo
My son’s hazel eyes scan neighbors’ windows
police are relaxed – and satisfied
on the phone
i hear rage shaking in his voice
i’m no punk – in no mood- to see you
i look like mr. clean- but I’m no punk…
his mind paces
a neighbor called – the police –
i gotta calm down… …
i can feel his tears punching holes in walls
i’m no punk… had to stay calm…
the police— i gotta calm down
but not today
*Will be published in my upcoming book of poetry: “Purgatory Has an Address” release date, April 15.
The Scent of Patchouli
Nana Romaine and i relax in a patchouli incense thread of smoke
floating through our strands of hair
braided with fingers and time
with nana there is always time
a two-mile afternoon stroll
to barbara ann’s sunshine colored bakery
coming home warm like oven heavy with sleep
nap wakes to front porch
evenings aproned
by the silk scent of yellow and pink rose bushes
flush petal blush
summer evening sky nana time
in the cool-almost-dew we snap green beans
staccato pops in pots
steam rising from giddy water
nana and i eat what we want when we want
handswashed-tableset-headbowed–amen-we eat
late night pancakes we eat
fried-chicken mashed-potato mornings
we eat midday deviled egged picnics we eat
sugar-dipped-dried-oranges
pickled-watermelon-rinds
time is the flame on nana’s stove
hours and days melt into obsession
as we unbox time
in 1,000-piece puzzles / memorizing edges / intricate rose gardens
blue & white & blue & white & blue & white sky pieces that almost-fit-but-not-quite
a collage of thimbles dali’s melting clocks
melting time into a stream
where memory stretches time
weaves itself in and out of synapses – through decades
as though nana was there when i was born
pouring soft questions
into my eyes
*Previously published in “Cholla Needles 39” under the title of “Time Transfusion” and will be published in my upcoming book, “Purgatory Has an Address.”
Romaine Washington, M.Ed. is the author Purgatory Has An Address (Bamboo Dart Press, 2021) and Sirens in Her Belly (Jamii Publications, 2015). She has been published in many anthologies including San Bernardino Singing, Lullwater Review, and Cholla Needles. She has presented her work in a wide variety of venues from National Poetry Slam to NPR and KPFK.Washington is a fellow of The Watering Hole, South Carolina and the Inland Area Writing Project at the University of California in Riverside. Washington is active in the local writing community through workshops and readings, the organization Women Who Submit, book festivals and literary events. www.romainewashington.com